our christmas tree sits idly, a scatters of shed leaves testament to the passing seasons. it’s weird knowing that the ‘christmas smell’ of a live douglas fir tree comes at the price of its life. an icon of the yuletide season denied the fact that it is slowly dying, forever masked by the bright lights, shiny balls and the avalanche of gifts it holds in its slumber. but when the wrapping has been torn, and the days turn into weeks, the leaves begin to wilt and fall.
it’s that time of passing seasons that pave the way to new beginnings.
something that was sent my way, origins unknown: To kinder gods and fiercer loves, to wild abandonments and gentle moments, to wine, to sunsets and to passion, to new beginnings and revolutions. Cheers.
have a great new year, everybody. :)